


Drawn from the Heart

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkmeme prompt: Sherlock can't tell John how he feels so he uses love hearts instead!<br/>(Turns out the OP meant those sugar love hearts. I wrote a separate story to fit that more correctly, Sugar Sugar, which I'll post shortly. IN the meantime: this schmoopy, non-explicit fluff)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn from the Heart

John stares at the sticky note affixed to the fridge.

It says: ‘We need milk and biscuits. And a boning knife.’

It’s a perfectly normal note except that the dots on the i’s are all little lovehearts instead of dots. It’s a grocery list left by a 13 year old girl, but it’s in Sherlock’s handwriting.

Another sticky note below the first says ‘Please also extract the remaining half of the old boning knife from the sofa.’ The i’s on that note are normal dots. Instead, the whole note is framed in a loveheart. Elegantly drawn, with a dynamic swirl on the tail.

Bemused but delighted, John pockets the two notes and goes shopping.

When he comes home, Sherlock is still out, so he finds a hygienic shelf on the fridge for the milk, puts the biscuits in the tin, the new knife on the counter, and goes upstairs to sort the washing. He’d rather be chasing villains across London, frankly, but he supposes it’ll be a good idea to have clean socks for the next time it’s necessary.

He hears Sherlock return as he’s heading downstairs with a basket of clothes to take to the laundry leading off Mrs Hudson’s courtyard.

“The knife is still in the sofa,” says Sherlock.

“So it is,” says John, unconcerned, “But you’re right, that sofa was getting dangerous. I’m very pleased you dealt with it in a prompt and efficient manner. No more trouble from it, then?”

“None,” says Sherlock with a little sigh. John grins at him, puts down the laundry basket and goes to his desk drawer. He finds a pair of pliers, goes to the sofa and looks for the damage.

Sherlock has carved two thirds of a heart into the arm of the sofa on the side that John usually claims. The blade broke before the shape could be finished. John blinks at the heart, runs his finger over the torn leather, then uses the pliers to extract the broken blade.

“Here you go. “ He hands the blade over, “Milk’s in the fridge. Got anything else for the washing?”

He doesn’t. Sherlock’s clothes are usually much too fine for a washing machine. Sherlock personally sends the dry cleaning bills to Mycroft, and John personally answers Mycroft’s calls and leaves them on speakerphone, allowing Mycroft to berate the air at length, usually while John does the dishes. He finds the Holmes brothers’ relationship pretty entertaining. It’s even more entertaining that Mycroft usually pays the bill.

John comes back upstairs with an empty basket, having hung the damp clothes in the courtyard, to find lunch waiting for him on the table. The fact that Sherlock has made a sandwich for him is unusual enough. The fact that he has cut the sandwiches into heart shapes is considerably moreso.

John makes tea, because Sherlock, for all his genius, makes an appalling cuppa. He places one in front of Sherlock, sits with the other at the table and eats his heart-shaped sandwiches slowly and with obvious enjoyment. He licks his fingers afterwards, also slowly.

Sherlock, not eating, watches John intently.

Done eating, John stands to take the plate and the empty cups back to the kitchen. There on the table, where the plate had rested, is a loveheart scratched in the surface.

John takes the crockery to the kitchen then returns to the living room. Sherlock is still watching his every move.

John sits back at the table. He finds the tweezers Sherlock used to scratch the heart, half-hidden under some unopened mail. John picks them up, considers for a moment, then takes the tip of them to the heart on the table.

First his initials. Underneath them, Sherlock’s. He considers drawing in the traditional arrow, piercing the heart, but he thinks it might be overkill. Instead, he places the tweezers back on the table, stands and takes two steps to Sherlock’s side.

He leans down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I love you, too,” he says.

Sherlock sighs and leans into the kiss.

After that day, the furniture suffers a lot less, but John still gets notes, sandwiches, sugar cube arrangements on tiny plates, soap marks in the bathroom mirror that only reveal themselves when the steam has fogged the glass, fingertips tracing the familiar drawing on his bare skin, kissed into his back, his thigh, his chest.

Every single day, John says ‘I love you’ with the words that Sherlock can only say, every day, with a shape.

And then one day, Sherlock says ‘I love you’. And John traces the shape of a heart over Sherlock’s heart with a warm fingertip.

And it’s perfect.


End file.
